


A Shot in the Dark

by TheAfroCircus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Friendships, Feelings Realization, Flashbacks, Fluff, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Gun Violence, John is a Good Friend, M/M, PTSD John, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Sacrifice, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-31 20:36:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20121295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAfroCircus/pseuds/TheAfroCircus
Summary: John realizes for the first time just how much Sherlock cares for him and how much he cares for the detective in return. But has he realized too late?





	A Shot in the Dark

_ A Shot in the Dark. _

John cursed under his breath. They were really in a jam, weren't they? He could hardly catch his breath, was bone tired, exhausted. His shoulder ached, he could barely move it and he was sure his never-injured leg would start acting up because of the stress of it all. He didn't know how they could possibly get out of this alive. He was still getting used to this new life of chasing criminals and his madman of a flatmate all over London. Well, now the criminals were chasing them so to speak. What a big twist in their otherwise not-at-all normal lives.  
  
The army doctor panted as they pressed up against the wall they just took cover behind. He shut his eyes, trying and for a majority failing to regulate his breathing. He didn't want to disturb Sherlock's thinking with his heavy breathing. The detective has yelled at him for it before. Oddly, the man wasn't saying anything of it now. Sherlock didn't look much better, John realized as he looked his mate over. It was from a doctor's perspective, of course. It wasn't weird. Thankfully, neither of them have been injured thus far but that could very much change very quickly. The two of them were running on pure luck now. Luck and Sherlock's brilliance.  
  
A mob’s gunmen has been shooting at them all night. The shooters didn't seem to be aiming to kill them, only to distract them or at the most injure one of them to slow down their investigation of them.  
  
Sherlock and John have been lucky enough to dodge all the bullets so far, running between building after building. There had to be a sniper on every other building opposite them, owned by said mobster.  
  
"What a work out this is hm?" John attempted to cover his panting with a hollow laugh, looking over at Sherlock.  
  
The detective was panting as well and didn't respond to the doctor's idiotic attempt at humoring him. He was thinking. He was most likely thinking of a strategy to get to the next building without being shot. All the others had worked perfectly. At least that's what John thought the genius was thinking of.  
  
As it turned out, Sherlock was thinking something else entirely. He was thinking with one set goal; how to keep John Watson alive. John couldn't possibly run for much longer. The man wasn't in the best shape. He tired easily and soon that leg, psychosomatic or not, would give out. John Watson would not get shot down, not while Sherlock Holmes lived and continued to draw breath. 

The genius' mind raced for a plan, a solution, a ploy for time. His fingertips were on either side of his temples as he thought rapidly. His eyes moved back and forth under his shut eyelids, rapidly. Finally, they opened up with realization. Sherlock looked at the doctor, eyes softening. He had come up with a plan. A solid plan. It would work and he wasn't afraid to put it into place.

John saw that Sherlock was done thinking and could tell a plan had been put into place. Now all he had to do was hear what it was and they could both get to the next building through the raining bullets. He hoped to get back to their home by dawn, that is, if they lived until then.

"Alright. How do we get to the next building, Sherlock? It's a bigger gap than the others. We'd need a far bigger cover, yeah? What's your plan?" asked John as he looked at the consulting detective. 

Sherlock only kept his eyes fixed on the shorter man in front of him. John H Watson. His blogger. His doctor. His colleague- _ friend? _ His friend. John was his friend. He knew exactly what had to be done to ensure his safety. 

"Sherlock." John urged. "Plan." 

"Hm?" Sherlock snapped out of his thoughts of all the joy the doctor has brought him over the past year. "Oh. Right. We...have to get to the street." he said distractedly, his attention elsewhere. 

"The street." John repeated. "There's no cover in the street. We'll be shot dead." He said point blank. That plan didn't sound good at all or he supposed it didn't make much sense to him.

"Not if we get underneath a car in enough time." 

"A car?" John nodded. Well that made more sense. They could do that. The car would provide them cover for the reign of bullets firing. They only had to make it twelve feet to the car parked or be torn apart by bullets trying. No pressure at all. He wondered briefly how exactly this became his life. Oh right, he lived with Sherlock Holmes, his nutter of a flatmate. 

The doctor swallowed and took a breath. He's done this before, once in Afghanistan. He was one of the few soldiers to survive. Him and the three others who made it under the truck alive, turned to see all their mates laying dead and unable to make it the twenty feet to survival. He inhaled and exhaled again. This could be a second chance. Everyone who is supposed to survive could survive. It was only two of them. Two of them against all this and the rest of the world.

"Right." John started. He gave the order to run back then too. "On my mark then." 

"No. My mark." Sherlock corrected. He had to be in charge of this for it to be a success. He took a breath. "One..." he gave a pause, building up his nerve to its strongest point. "Two..." His blue grey eyes glazed over as he stared at his friend who prepared to run along with him for their lives. Little did John know, they wouldn't be running in the same direction. "Three..." _ Goodbye, John _. Sherlock nodded. "Go, John! Run!"

John immediately ran for the streets, dodging the bullets being shot at him. One narrowly missed his head as he slid quickly under the parked car. Sherlock had been right. They were safe from the firing under here. 

The doctor sighed in relief and exhaustion. Glad to be alive, glad they made it. "Good plan. But how did you-" He looked over to the detective and immediately frowned. He was under this car alone. There was no one taking cover with him. His heart fell. "Oh my god." _ No, God no, not again. _

John lifted his head and searched the sidewalk with his eyes, looking desperately for Sherlock with more fear than he's ever had in Afghanistan combined. His eyes finally settled on a lump sticking out from behind the shadow of the building he just ran from. The mop of curls lay sprawled on the ground. He shook his head. No, God no. 

Sherlock hadn't even ran but four steps before he'd been hit. The detective tried to run behind him, ensuring John was far ahead. He'd taken the bullets while John and his cowardice ran to safety. If John knew there wasn't a way for both of them to get out then he would have stayed. By God, he would have died by Sherlock's side. He would have wanted to but Sherlock made the choice for them both. 

John was in a complete shock. "Jesus, Sherlock..." He scrambled out from under the car, running to the body. He didn't care about the mobsters, about the bullets, about anything. Only his flatmate, his _ friend _. He had a friend that willingly died for him. It was risky business, picking a good friend like that. One that would risk everything for you. A real shot in the dark, that. The doctor was sick to his stomach. He just realized Sherlock was his friend and now… he would never get to tell him, never get to tell him anything ever again. “Sherlock!” he shouted. “Sherlock!” he fell to his knees. John didn't know where to begin, his hands shaking over the limp corpse. He couldn't do anything, could he? Except live with the guilt, the sorrow, the loneliness he's been cured of since shaking hands with the detective. John's body was shaking along with his hands. “Oh my god no...Sher…” 

“Good acting, John.” a whisper said. 

John's tear filled eyes went wide and he frowned down at the man that was staring back at him through split eyelids. “You _ fucking bastard- ! _” 

“Shhhh.” Sherlock hissed. 

“Sherlock!” John exclaimed in anger. 

“You're really selling it. Although, anger isn't the second stage of grief…” 

John grit his teeth, saying nothing. He could not believe the maniac was alive. Now he was going to kill him himself.

“Shocked into silence, good. Now the snipers have stopped shooting. They are likely getting an earful from their boss. They don’t want me dead. Not yet, anyway.” 

John started. “_ Neither do I _ you pompous-”

“Shhh.” Sherlock hissed again. “Can you still run? ”

“What?” 

"_ Shhhh." _

"STOP shushing-" 

"_ Shhhhhh." _

John cursed and grudgingly began to talk lower in response. He repeated, "What?" 

“Can you still run?”

“For my life? Yeah. Why? And why didn't you follow me under the car!” John shouted, quietly.

“Simple.” Sherlock grinned. “It's all part of the game.” 

John glared in disbelief. “You could have actually gotten shot, Sherlock!” 

“Dull.” said the detective and he rolled over, somehow making it look graceful. The complete dickhead. Sherlock stood, running once again down the back alleys, calling over his shoulder. "Come on, John! You'll definitely be shot if you stand in that spot for approximately three seconds longer!"

“Christ!” The army doctor cursed as he ran too. Just as the consultant predicted, bullets were fired upon the spot he was just standing in. “Sherlock!!” John shouted in anger after him.

"The game is on, John!!" 

John sighed as they ran for their lives through the backstreets of London. They ended up living far into the morning with minimal injuries and being able to solve the case by noon. The doctor collapsed onto his chair by half one, and was asleep a second after his rear hit the cushion. He awoke to a blanket covering him, hot tea, takeaway and the calming melody of a violin. 

The doctor's life was strange now but at least his new life with the detective wasn't and would never be boring. If he lived, that is; but one thing was certain. John Watson would protect Sherlock Holmes at all cost because although it's only been one year, the doctor already knows he would die for the detective. Their fate was sealed, tied together in an unbreakable bond. It was the two of them against the mobsters, the criminals, the bullets, everything. Ever since they've been introduced, it was meant to be. It was just Sherlock and John from then on, the two of them against the rest of the world.


End file.
